She laughed, but it was an anxious, fluttery sound. “Are you ready?”
“Don’t tell Lina I acted like this. She thinks I’m way cool.”
Allenford squeezed Angel’s shoulder and headed for the door. Sarandon followed him, the two physicians pushing through the swinging doors like Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp striding into a saloon.
The minute the doctors came into the reporters’ view, the lights started flashing, cameras clicked.
Allenford went to the podium, tapped his microphone to test it, and began to read his prepared statement.
Behind the doors, Angel heard bits and pieces of Allenford’s statement.
“… Angelo DeMarco was admitted to St Joseph’s Hospital, following his third and most severe heart attack…. Only a heart transplant could save his life…. Mr. DeMarco was placed on the UNOS—United Network for Organ Sharing—list as a potential recipient.”
Someone asked a question that Angel couldn’t quite hear.
“No,” Allenford answered, his voice more strident than usual. “Mr. DeMarco did not receive special privileges because of his fame or financial status. He was put at the top of the transplant list because he was critically ill.” Allenford folded up his prepared speech and shoved it in the pocket of his white lab coat. “He waited for a heart like anyone else. Longer than some, not as long as others. I performed the surgery, which went very well. Mr. DeMarco remained in the hospital for an undisclosed amount of time, and then was discharged. He is now beginning this new phase of his life. Thank you.”
Questions came from the crowd like bullets. Reporters jumped up, hands waving in the air, microphones thrust forward. Angel couldn’t hear the questions—they were just a droning buzz of static and confusion but he knew they didn’t matter. Allenford could say whatever he wanted; the feeding frenzy wouldn’t end until Angel stepped forward.
Madelaine squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to go out there, you know.”
“It’s a little intimidating,” he admitted. “I can hear the Jaws theme song playing in my head. Either Francis is singing or I’m in danger.”
She laughed. “You’re a sick man, Angel DeMarco.”
Beyond the cloudy glass, he saw Allenford step to the left of the podium—their signal for Angel to appear if he wanted to.
He turned to Madelaine. “Come with me.”
“Of course.”
He felt a sudden urge to kiss her. Instead, he smiled. Just knowing that she would be beside him, urging him on, believing in him, gave him the power to do anything. It surprised him—how good it felt to have someone to lean on. In all the times he’d been afraid in his life, he’d been alone. He wondered now if he’d been afraid because he was alone. “You’d better go first. If they see us together, there will be hell to pay. Tomorrow the tabloids will be digging through your trash looking for my underwear. Some stripper in Deadwood will describe it.”
He waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t. She just stood there, staring at him. “You’ll do great.” She gave his hand a last squeeze, then left the kitchen in front of him. She slipped around the podium and took a seat in the back of the room.
This is it. He took a deep breath and prepared himself, exactly as he would have done for a role. With an ease born of practice, he slipped into the public persona of Angel DeMarco.
Smiling, he strolled out of the kitchen. He knew he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He walked up to the podium and stopped.
“It’s him!”
Cameras flashed like lightning through the crowd, popping and hissing. Questions erupted all at once, so many he couldn’t draw a single one from the tangle.
Someone started to clap, then before he knew it, the questions had stopped and they were all clapping.
For the first time in two months, he was Angel DeMarco again—not anonymous Mark Jones, not the heart transplant in 264-W, not a screw-up younger brother, not an insta-father. He was Angel DeMarco, bad-boy actor of Hollywood, and he loved it.
The old feelings came back, filling him. The sound and fury of the applause pumped air into his ego until he thought he would burst from it. How had he forgotten this rush, this mesmerizing moment when he felt loved and adored by the world?
Grinning, he raised a hand. “Now, now, I didn’t perform the surgery, I just lived through it.”
Laughter rippled through the room. The applause died slowly away, and when it was gone, Angel noticed the sudden silence, the way they were watching him with unveiled curiosity.
It wasn’t how they used to look at him. The long red scar that bisected his chest started to itch.
The air seeped from his ego, leaving him feeling hollow and ordinary. He wondered suddenly if he could survive this way, being just an average Joe.
He’d never thought so. In the old days he used to look at men with wives and families and nine-to-five jobs and laugh at them.
He’d always thought life was a party—either you were invited or you weren’t. And if you weren’t, you were part of the great cleanup crew that never had any fun.
But he was beginning to understand that fun was only part of what life could be. He thought of last night, the time he’d spent with Lina on the porch, the way she’d hugged him. And of Madelaine at Francis’s grave, the tender words and smiles she’d given him to help him through the staggering grief. He’d felt more emotion in those few minutes with the two of them than he’d felt in the whole thirty-four years that came before.
“First of all,” he said quietly, “I’d like to thank St. Joe’s for their exceptional level of care. My doctors—Chris Allenford, Marcus Sarandon, and Madelaine Hillyard—fought to save my life even when I made it hard on them. And the nurses and therapists—”
“Angel—show us your scar!”
The jarring question wrenched Angel out of his thoughts and reminded him where he was. He knew instantly that he’d been quiet too long. Now they were really wondering what was wrong with him.
He laughed easily. “Come on, Jeff, you can do better than that. Do you really think my scar is what America wants to see?”
“How do you feel, Angel?”
“Great, thanks. St. Joe’s did a topflight job on me.”
Someone snickered. “They did a pretty good job on us, too. There was no scoop on you at all.”
Angel nodded. “That was on my request. Hell, it took me a while to admit I was this sick. I wasn’t ready to tell the world.”
“And you are now?”
Angel knew a cue when he heard one. He reached into his pocket for the statement he’d prepared, but suddenly it felt too formal. He leaned his elbows over the podium and looked at the crowd. “Here’s the thing. I’m still sick—I’m getting better and I’m gonna live a long time and all that, but I’m recovering from a hell of a cut. I need some time—and I’d really appreciate it if you guys’d give me that.”
The room was quiet for a second, then someone said, “That doesn’t sound like Angel DeMarco.”
Angel glanced at the People magazine reporter who’d spoken—it was the woman who’d interviewed him last year. “It’s me, Bobbie. But a person tends to change after something like this—I think you either change or die.” He laughed. “Let’s face it; I hit the brick wall at the end of the road, and I was damned lucky to hit it at St. Joe’s. That should be your story, Bobbie. I’m one of the lucky ones. Upwards of forty thousand people a year die waiting for organs.”
“Who was your donor?” she asked in a sharp voice.
A hush of anticipation fell across the room.
Angel steeled himself. “That’s confidential.”
“Male or female?” someone asked from the corner.
Angel forced a smile. “Yep.”
“When exactly did you have the surgery?” Bobbie asked, her pen poised to write down the date that would kick-start an investigation.
“That’s no one’s business but mine.” Angel tossed them an easy smile to soften the words.
/> “What are you going to do now? We’d heard you were all set to shoot a new action picture.”
It was strange how unimportant that sounded. A year ago he’d sent Val after that role like a bird dog, with orders to do whatever it took to land the part. Now Angel couldn’t have cared less. The thought of leaving Hollywood forever caused less than a tinge of regret. His old life had begun to have the shimmering, faded edges of a dream he could barely recall.
He thought about telling them his real goal—the Francis Xavier DeMarco Foundation for transplant research. But if he raised Francis’s name, some yahoo would try to interview the mysterious brother, and when they found that he was dead—when they found how and when he’d died—it would all be over. Some eager-beaver reporter would dig until the story broke.
No, he’d tell them about Francis later, when the wound wasn’t quite so fresh and raw. Someday, if and when he felt like it, he’d share the true nature of his miracle with the world.
Someday, but not today.
He flashed his trademark grin. “I’m going to try to settle down and have a regular life.”
“You?” someone said, laughing.
Bobbie watched him intently. “That’s what you said after that stint in Betty Ford.”
Angel didn’t blink. She was right, and they both knew it—he’d said it to her. “That’s true, Bobbie,” he said quietly. “The difference is, then I knew I was lying. I couldn’t imagine my life as anything other than a movable feast.” He couldn’t help himself, he looked up at Madelaine. “Now I see a whole world of new possibilities.”
“How long will you live?” someone asked.
He looked at the reporter. “How long will you?”
“Are you going to settle down and get married?”
Angel heard the derision in the question, and he knew he deserved it. Celebrities in trouble made this same speech all the time. People magazine had the wedding headlines—and the subsequent divorce headlines—to prove it. The media and the public had learned to disbelieve a celebrity who swore to change his or her life.
He had no way to convince them or himself. All he could do was try, and when he failed, to try again.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Angel looked at the reporter, who sat in the back row. The man looked rumpled and tired. There was no emotion in his face—just a bored look, as if to say, Spit it out, DeMarco, I don’t have all day.
“Okay, boys and girls, here’s your quote for the day. Angel DeMarco quits.”
There was a general snickering from the crowd. They’d heard it all before and they didn’t believe it. No one ever really walked away from fame.
“Hey, Angel,” someone yelled from the back of the room. “Is all this a front for AIDS? That prostitute in Florida—”
Angel burst out laughing at the absurdity of the question. All of a sudden he felt young and carefree, almost buoyant. I just walked away from it, he thought. He hadn’t meant to do that, to say that, but it had come out somehow, and now that he’d done it, he felt freer than he’d been in years. These people would continue watching him for a few days or weeks, but one day he’d wake up and they’d be gone; they wouldn’t care anymore. He could live the way he wanted and not worry that every little rock in his wake would be turned over and examined under a microscope. He could be an average Joe—the idea was mesmerizing this time.
“I definitely don’t have AIDS,” he said. ’The only infectious disease I ever had was fame.” He felt himself starting to smile, a slow, natural grin that seemed to come up from the core of his new heart. “And now that’s gone.”
He waved briefly, and found himself hoping that he never had to face them again. “Good-bye.”
Angel’s smiling face appeared on the television screen. The bland walls of the cafeteria framed him, made him look incredibly vibrant and full of life. Even in the flawed color of the small portable TV, his eyes were an incredible, mesmerizing shade of green.
Madelaine grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels—he was on every one, saying the same words over and over again. Okay, boys and girls, here’s your quote for the day. Angel DeMarco quits … quits … quits…
Even now, hours after the press conference, that statement surprised her. He’d never once indicated that he had any intention of quitting show business.
What would he do now?
She felt a flutter of fear. She didn’t like to admit it, but she’d come to lean on Angel in the past few weeks. Since his surgery, he’d become the man she’d always expected him to be. She knew he thought it was because of Francis’s heart, and maybe that was partially true, but not completely. In some ways, she thought she knew him better than he knew himself. It was because she looked past the quick temper and volatile nature. She believed in him—she always had, even when she hadn’t wanted to. He’d always had a core of goodness in him, of compassion. All he had to do was believe in it and reach for it.
His face came on the screen again—CNN. Her heart gave a quick little jerk at the sight of him, so damned handsome. And yet, even as good as he looked onscreen, he was more handsome in real life. Television didn’t show any of the lines that creased the corners of his eyes when he grinned, didn’t pick up the razor-thin scar that bisected his left eyebrow. The camera captured all of the perfection, but none of his soul.
That belonged to her and Lina.
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She set down the remote and padded into the kitchen, picking up the phone on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.” Lina’s enthusiastic voice came through the lines.
Madelaine couldn’t help smiling. Lina sounded so happy lately—Angel and Zachary had given her that. Though she felt a little sting of jealousy, Madelaine was so pleased that Lina had begun to find her way that she didn’t care who had brought the change about.
“I’m over at Vicki Owen’s house. We’re all playing Trivial Pursuit, then Zach asked me to go to the movies. Is that okay?”
Madelaine wanted to ask to speak to Vicki, but she knew Lina would be hurt by the obvious lack of trust. They were building a tenuous new relationship, and she wanted to do it right this time. “You’ll be home by eleven?”
“Jeez, Mom. I’m not a baby.”
Madelaine laughed at the familiar complaint. “You’ll always be my baby.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, Mom, did you see Dad’s press conference?”
“Yes. I taped it for you.”
There was a pause, then very quietly Lina said, “He didn’t mention me.”
Madelaine heard the disappointment in her daughter’s voice, and she wondered what to do. She knew that Lina idolized her newfound father, and that it was a dangerous way to feel about anyone. If Lina didn’t grow up and see Angel as a man—flaws and all—she could be hurt. Every day Lina would see nicks in the armor of her perfect father, and each little dent would hurt, would feel like he’d let her down.
What would Lina do when she realized that her father wasn’t Angel DeMarco the bad-boy actor, but plain old Angel—a man who was all too human?
She chose her words carefully. “Angel talked to me about that. He didn’t want the press hounding you. But he’s very proud of you.”
“He mentioned you,” she said.
“I’m one of his doctors.”
There was a pause, then, “Did he really say he was proud of me?” The question sounded wistful.
“Yes, he did.”
Lina laughed, a short, sharp sound that ended quickly. “Yeah, well, I’ve got my key. If you’re asleep, I’ll just let myself in and go to bed.”
“Oh, right, Lina. Like I can sleep with you out. I’ll be waiting up for you.”
Lina laughed. “I can always hope. See you at eleven-thirty, Mom.”
“Eleven. Be careful and have fun. Wear your seat belt.”
“Mom…” She sighed dramatically. “Come on …”
Madelaine grinned at her own neuroses. “You’re lu
cky I don’t make you wear a crash helmet. Tell Vicki and Zach hello for me. And, Lina …”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
There was another quiet pause, and Madelaine could hear her daughter breathing on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, Mom. I love you, too.”
Madelaine hung up the phone and looked around. The house felt empty without Lina. It was amazing how much even a quiet, sullen teenager could enliven a room. She grabbed a mug and made herself a pot of Earl Grey tea, then took the cup into the living room, flicking on lights as she went.
She was just about to draw herself a bath when the doorbell rang. Setting her tea down on the pink marble rim of the bathtub, she hurried to open the front door.
Angel stood there, looking for all the world like he belonged on her front porch. “Heya, Mad,” he said, giving her a bright, boyish grin that made her heartbeat speed up. Then he whipped a bouquet of hothouse daisies out from behind his back.
She stared at them in shock, trying—idiotically—to remember the last time a man had given her flowers. “They’re beautiful,” she said—also idiotically, she thought. But she couldn’t think straight. He looked so handsome standing there, backlit by a huge blanket of starry night sky.
He glanced down at the droopy bouquet, then up at her again. “I was going to buy you a dozen red roses—even went into the flower shop—but it felt like my old life. The way I used to do things for women that didn’t matter.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I saw these daisies and thought about the ones that grow wild in front of my cabin … and I thought they were right for you.”
The sentiment touched her so deeply that for a second she couldn’t find her voice. She felt ridiculous and immature … and wonderful. She tried to think of something witty to say and came up empty. Nervously she hooked her thumb toward the kitchen. “I’ll put them in water.”
He grinned. “You do that.”
She took the flowers and lifted them to her face, breathing deeply of the fresh, watery scent. Turning, she led him into the kitchen and pulled out a chipped porcelain vase—the only one she had. At his look, she shrugged. “I don’t have flowers in the house very often.”